A small part only of my grief I write; And if I do not publish all the tale It is because my gloom gets some respite By just a small bewailing: I bewail That a poet must with stupid folk abide Who steal his food and ruin his inside. Once I had books, each book beyond compare, And now no book at all is left to me; Now I am spied and peeped on everywhere; And this old head, stuffed with latinity, Rich with the poet's store of grave and gay, Will not get me skim-milk for half a day. A horse, a mule, an ass -- no beast have I! Into the forest day by day I go, And trot beneath a load of wood, that high! Which raises on my poor old back a row Of red raw blisters till I cry -- Alack, The rider that rides me will break my back. When he was old, and worn, and near his end, The Poet met Saint Patrick, and was stayed! I am a poet too, and seek a friend; A prop, a staff, a comforter, an aid; A Patrick to lift Ossian from despair, In Cormac Uasail mac Donagh of the Golden Hair! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT CASTLE BOTEREL by THOMAS HARDY WHERE THE PICNIC WAS by THOMAS HARDY THE HOUSE-TOP; A NIGHT PIECE by HERMAN MELVILLE THE NAME OF JESUS by JOHN NEWTON CLANCY OF THE MOUNTED POLICE by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE THE INDIAN DANCER by ANNA TILLMAN BOYD IS IT AMAVI OR IS IT AMO? by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |